The Least
by Addict to Fanfics
Summary: The least he could do for the brother who was out of his reach now was to see to the safety of the friend he left behind. Update, 07/20/13: will be adding the 'Lost(JW), Lonely(SH) and Law(GL)'. More postRF pieces, summaries inside chapters. Each can stand alone.
1. The Least - MH

The Least

Sherlock was gone. It had been his belief for years that he would outlive his brother but even now after having attended the funeral he couldn't quite believe it to be true. Everything he had become was the result of an effort to make that belief false. An effort to protect that in the end wasn't enough. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the challenge his self-made job entailed, he did, but for so long his job had been his secondary focus. A means to another end despite the thrill he found in it. It seemed self-indulgent and irresponsible that he should consider so important a position to be of little interest to him now that he had no one to protect. There was someone else who would understand this though; this need of his to focus on another's wellbeing. There would be a great deal of fallout from these recent events that would need to be managed and despite his part in them John Watson had forgiven him in recognition of their mutual loss. Dr. Watson, _John_, would understand it if he became his new focus. He was all that was left to link him to his brother and letting John Watson become his focus was the least he could do for the brother that was now out of reach.

* * *

So how was it?  
I like the postRF stories where Mycroft looks out for John (and where John looks out for Mycroft as well as he can), this was born of that. Consider it set just after Reichenbach and Mycroft doesn't know Sherlock is alive _yet.  
_I'm supposed to be writing a different postRF section for another fic I'm trying. I can't get it how I want so you got this little piece instead. 05/18/13


	2. The Lost - JW

_Bad mood + reading Reichenbach recently = angst?_ _*Shrugs* I wrote down the idea/summary at two in the morning, slight night owl…_

**The Lost**  
He had never quite been able to understand the people he called The Lost. Now he understood them all too well, and he wished desperately that it was not so.

* * *

He had never quite understood the people that he had given the title 'The Lost' to. They were those who when a death occurred to one they loved simply became Lost. These people could not handle the loss they suffered and became detached from all around them. It was as if they were the ones who had died and not those whose bodies were placed in the ground.

He believed he had long since become accustomed to death over the course of his life. His mother died when he was young; his father not long after he had started med school. To finish med school and be a doctor as he had wanted he'd signed onto the army. There he'd seen plenty of death. The deaths of strangers. The deaths of colleagues. The deaths of friends. He had mourned them all because dying was something to be acknowledge and accepted; it's what people do.

He had mourned them and moved on but not forgotten death. London was a new battlefield and death was present once again. The deaths of strangers were nothing new and the grief of life lost was easily put aside. The death of colleagues was something more easily avoided simply for having fewer of them to be at risk. Though there were close encounters where death sat waiting they ended well and he was grateful for the slight reprieve given by this new war.

The death of friends was of course the hardest to acknowledge and he had been lucky these past years to be spared such circumstances where acknowledgement would be necessary. Until now at least he had been. Now though he had become one of The Lost. He understood logically the loss he had suffered. He could acknowledge that he had looked upon the body of his friend and that life was no longer present in him. He had felt for a pulse and found only the lack thereof. He could acknowledge it, had acknowledged it, but he could not seem to accept it.

He woke in the morning and made tea for two. He checked his phone frequently for texts that never arrived. He moved about the piles of papers that were strewn about the flat but never once thought that now he could, if he wished, pack them away and move them elsewhere. Perhaps he wasn't falling to pieces as so many others had when loss was upon them but instead it seemed he was stuck together too well. His mind refused to believe Sherlock wasn't coming back and clung to the routines that included him; instead of shedding habits and losing Sherlock he was keeping Sherlock and losing himself. He was unchanging, patiently waiting for the door to open and his friend to return. Until then he was lost to the world.

* * *

_Ah, well, I've kind of got my mind locked on the post-RF period. Hopefully once these three are done I can forget the others and work on something a little less angst filled. The Lonely (S) will be posted... probably within a week and then I'll post The Law (L) whenever I get it finished._

_06/06/13, 0619, 27, 28, 29_


	3. The Lonely - SH

_Ok so finishing The Lost didn't get rid of my postRF kick. It got you this piece instead. So The Least (05/21/13) was Mycroft, The Lost (07/20) was John and now The Lonely (07/27) is Sherlock. They can stand alone or be from the same universe. It'd be appreciated if you leave me some feedback on at least one of them…_

_Not intended as Slash, (strong Friendship) but wear your goggles if you want._

**The Lonely**  
He thought he knew what loneliness was. He was sure it would be nothing to him to feel it once more. He was so terribly wrong.

* * *

He'd thought about it before. Of course he had. He had thought about what this Case of his would entail. The supplies he'd need immediately and in the long run. What resources he had and which he'd need to acquire. Where he'd start and where he would, hopefully, end this long Case. He'd thought out everything before he'd taken that final look and Jumped. He had thought nothing of this loneliness though.

The mornings were the worst, or perhaps the nights were. Maybe it was midday when he noticed that the silence that followed him hung most heavily in the air; it seemed to pervade every minute of every hour of the days that passed. It had never bothered him before. He was sure of it. This clawing ache within him that tried to wrench him apart so terribly when he thought of companionship hadn't existed. He never would have survived this long if it had always been there. It was there now though; not something he could deny no matter how he wished it. It tore at him, shredding his apparently existent heart.

The Work kept him busy; kept him from feeling it. Like the Work kept him from feeling the boredom claw at his mind. An imperfect solution to the sensations he faced that faltered when his transport demanded he stop and let the work go if only for a few hours rest. Unlike the boredom this new ache had a solution that was readily apparent. It was so simple and yet unattainable. His companion existed and his presence would heal the tears and sooth the pain. To go to him would be to loose him though. He could only hope that when the Work was done there would still be enough left of his heart for the Doctor to stitch it back together.

* * *

_I'm still working on a short piece for Lestrade. It's just another drabble style bit but I've stalled at about 150w. Does anyone want a piece on anyone else after Lestrade's bit is done? Sally, Anderson, Mrs. Hudson, Harry Watson?_

_Is there a reason for the titles all being 'The L***'? Um, not really. The Least was the title for Mycroft's piece, which was never going to be added to, but I wanted the 'Lost' for John and I didn't really want a bunch of shorts posted as individual works so I figured they could fit as a collection instead. So, Least, Lost and Sherlock's piece/idea got changed from Alone to Lonely. Lestrade's idea came after and by that point I thought I might as well keep the running theme with the 'Law' title._

_06/29/13, 0630, 0701, 0722_


	4. The Law - GL

_AN: So... It's been a year since I decided to take up Feathers' challenge and write and post regularly. If only Feathers would also do so *hint*hint* I've still got a couple pieces done and saved so the rest of this year will have something each month still. Next year? We'll have to wait and see how I do._

_Explanations for delay at the bottom. I hope it was worth the wait, it is the longest piece yet..._

**The Law - Lestrade**  
He had always believed in doing what was right. It didn't matter if it was difficult, it was simply the right thing to do and therefore he would do it. He'd never thought that one day he'd resent the law that he had so long upheld.

* * *

He sat silently in his office, the blinds drawn and the door locked. He wanted no interruptions. There was paperwork on his desk that needed to be filled out and murderers didn't take time off when the police had other duties to fulfill. He disregarded both the waiting papers and folders. His badge gleamed dully as he turned it over in his hands, examining it carefully; Sherlock's brother had seen to it that he'd kept his job in the aftermath of recent events. So much power, and yet so little.

.,.,.,.

Sherlock was dead. A simple statement that carried with it a whole host of implications not the least of which was the very simple fact that the incredibly brilliant, and sometimes terribly ignorant, man was indeed gone. It hurt to think the younger man wouldn't be showing up in his office again, going through his desk and generally making a nuisance of himself. It hurt to think that despite the number of times he'd threatened to keep Sherlock from the Yard he was actually partly responsible for the fact the young man wouldn't enter its doors again.

He knew that despite Sherlock's somewhat cavalier attitude towards people's emotional wellbeing he didn't go out of his way to verbally fillet anyone unless they made the first strike. Even then he stuck to verbal filleting of them never resorting to fisticuffs unless the other did so first and even then he was content to knock down and disarm. The thought of him in the worst of his boredom perpetrating the crimes he was accused of was ridiculous in the extreme. He'd only ever harmed himself in his escapes from boredom. The crimes not involving violence were out as well simply for the fact that they wouldn't be worth the effort. The yard was after all incompetent, or so Sherlock had kept telling them, so fooling them would have been pointless.

Of all the other issues that short statement brought about though it was the man's absence that seemed to stick with him - because he couldn't reconcile the fact that he had played a part in the Sherlock's death and yet Mycroft his overly protective, extremely powerful, older brother had, instead of seeing him jobless and sleeping on the street, ensured he'd not only retained employment at the yard but kept his rank as well. He'd even gone so far as to keep a black mark from being put on his record! Whatever the Holmes brothers might think of him he wasn't stupid.

Initially there had been too much to take care of; too much to worry about before he'd been assured of everyone else's safety. Afterwards he'd had time to think. Holmes' didn't do sentiment. For all that Sherlock professed he didn't care for others, he did indeed care, for one other at least, but DI Lestrade wasn't that other the title had belonged to John Watson. Mycroft though to Greg's knowledge didn't have a 'Watson' of his own. He had only Sherlock, and Greg was at least partly to blame for his loss.

.,.,.,.

Sherlock wasn't dead. Another simple statement but one that held a whole host of contradictory implications. Somehow though, those fleeting 'what if?' statements _fit_ in a way the solid assertions of the sequence of events didn't. So bits and pieces of theories floated through his head. Ideas were formed and discarded, but it fit that Sherlock had survived. So where did that leave him now? Whether he was alive or not wasn't the issue. He knew Sherlock had been innocent, and he knew that the Yard had been primarily responsible for driving him to his, at least seeming, suicide. That was the issue that had been plaguing his thoughts as of late. He knew realistically some people put away were innocent and a fair number of guilty people got off free and clear but it was one thing to think of statistics and another to know the innocent involved personally.

That problem was what had led him to sit in this position day after day, turning his badge over and examining it's details in minutia. It would be easy really, to simple leave it there one night and not come in the next day. A sort of silent protest against the job he'd been forced to carry out. Except, no one would even really protest it, but for the fact that they'd be short-handed for a few days before his place was filled. Besides that he'd figured Sherlock wanted him there for whatever reason he had in that mind of his, probably a snub at the higher ups that tried to ruin the career and reputation of a cop who was 'not quite as stupid as the rest of them' or something. After-all sentiment never really fit with Sherlock but it had to have been him who convinced Mycroft to let him keep his job.

Though it was all well and good to think of Sherlock possibly being alive and wanting him there, it was another thing entirely to actually have to deal with being there himself on a daily basis. So maybe he couldn't outright quit but even a transfer wasn't an option. Mycroft no doubt had a hand in keeping anything official off his record but with the publicity of recent events no other precinct would take him without the man's assistance and that in itself grated on his nerves without bringing in Sherlock's would be disdain for his brother's highhanded method's of interference.

.,.,.,.

Really, for all the time he spent staring at his badge debating his options or lack thereof, it was really just a series of excuses to avoid thinking on the fact that, despite his years of service on the force working with the men and women surrounding him, he resented them. For the majority he could say it wasn't even the actual person he resented but the very thing they, and he, represented simply being what they were. He resented the law he had so long upheld. The law he had been so willing to defend had ruined a great man, _a good man_, and there was nothing he could do against it.

* * *

_Well... that took forever and still didn't end how I wanted it. I honestly think writing this was (at least) twice as hard as getting into Sherlock's and Mycroft's mindsets but it's done now so *shrugs* I'll leave it to you for whether it's a good piece or not. Reviews please?_

_Sorry it took so long. I had a bit of computer trouble - wherein my computer **died** and I panicked for a bit - and I ended up getting a new (to me - it's refurbished) computer because mine was an extremely old piece of junk anyway. It took me a bit to get it though and then set up and transfer my files. After which I finally got to typing this again. I do hope that it was indeed worth the wait. Oh, and Anderson should be next but in the mean time I am going to keep posting other pieces I've got done and saved like I've been doing. I said in an AN in another story I am working on Sally's but the piece I'm doing ended up being pre-series so whenever it's done it'll be posted separate from these._

_As much as Sherlock has taken over my brain, Jay Feathers has taken to encouraging the Thor & Avengers (Loki, that is to say) plot bunnies to plan a breeding program and stage a revolt so I'm having a hard time concentrating on my many half done Sherlock pieces. I apologise in advance for the probably extended wait while the (un)civil war continues..._

_07/02/13, 0720, 0802, 0804, _0902,0905, 0916, 0930, 1010


End file.
